


Never Make Your Password "Password"

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack, Triwizard Tournament, like seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2045961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his fourth year, Harry Potter uncovers a nefarious plot involving Malfoy, the Dark Lord, his clothes, and his diary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Make Your Password "Password"

**Author's Note:**

> I completely forgot that Cedric was more or less dating Cho at this point, so I'm going to stubbornly insist that she doesn't exist for the next 3000 words or so.

It all started when someone stole Harry's clothes.

“Harry, I'm sure it'll be fine,” Hermione said reassuringly. The three friends were sitting in their usual seats before the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, and she was holding an opened book in her lap, a red bookmark lying in the crease. “Your clothes will turn up eventually.”

“Yeah, they just wanted a break for a while,” Ron said, but he never indicated whether or not he was kidding.

But Harry wasn't listening. He was too busy worrying about what was in one of his robes: HIS DIARY! Someone must've stolen all his clothes to get his diary, and he knew exactly whodunnit.

“Malfoy,” he said. “Malfoy stole my clothes.”

Everyone groaned at that—Ron, Hermione, Dean, Seamus, Neville, Professor McGonagall, Snape, Hagrid, Dumbledore, Voldemort—even Malfoy, who was standing right next to them, cleverly disguised as a bookcase and listening to their private conversations for the fifth time in three days. Yesterday he heard how Bill Weasley got his hair to be so luscious.

“Harry,” Ron said, exasperated. “Malfoy could _not_ have stolen your bloody clothes. He wouldn't even have been able to get in here, what with the Slytherins being too daft to even guess what the password is!”

“Besides, you always suspect him, Harry,” Hermione added. “Remember, back in the second book, how you thought he wanted to open the Chamber of Secrets? And in the sixth book, when you thought he was a—” She was cut off by a roughly whispered, “Hermione! Spoilers!”

“But who else would steal my clothes?!” Harry exclaimed. “It _has_ to be Malfoy, that inbred pure-blooded peacock-raising prick!”

“Christ, what a jerk,” Malfoy mumbled as the bookcase, scaring off a second-year who was going to shove a book into his face.

Harry glared at them as if his eyes could shoot lasers at them. Of course, if his eyes were able to shoot lasers, he would probably put them to better use, like burning intricate flower patterns into wood panels and selling them for charity. He _needed_ his diary back, and he absolutely _could not_ allow anyone else to read it. Therefore he resolutely stood up and announced, “I'm going to prove that Malfoy stole my di—clothes!” and he stalked out of the room, tripping through the portrait hole.

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances and shook their heads.

“He's delusional,” Ron said, and Malfoy's face popped out of the books to say, “Totes boats, my goats.”

Hermione sighed. “Everyone should know that 'password' isn't a good password.”

_One day later..._

Harry was lucky that the Yule Ball was happening so soon after losing his clothes, and that he'd been wearing his dress robes when Malfoy stole his diary. It had been awkward, yes, going to Potions in fancy clothes—mostly because Snape mistook him for a waiter who'd somehow wandered into a dungeon in a wizard school—but it did not matter. He would find Malfoy at the Ball, not for the purposes of dancing, but for the purposes of interrogation—Guantanamo style.

Parvati was not pleased when he almost immediately left her to stalk another boy, but she was inconsequential, a minor character, and thus her feelings did not matter. Harry spotted Malfoy after a few minutes of searching, standing at the opposite end of the room and talking animatedly with a group of other Slytherin jerks, and he did this fast walk/slow jog towards him, hoping against all odds that he had not read his diary. And judging by the way he was laughing with those jerks, he definitely had.

He literally ran into an obstacle near the middle of the room: Cedric, who had been awkwardly standing by himself until some weird fourth-year named Harry crashed into him. Cedric looked rather dashing in his dress robes, like one of Santa's reindeer or a rainbow-coloured My Little Pony, even when he was lying sprawled on the floor and possibly bleeding.

“Aw, bollocks,” Harry said Britishly as he helped Cedric up.

“What are you even doing?” Cedric asked him once he'd recovered. “And I thought you came with someone?”

“I was wondering the same about you,” Harry said.

Cedric shrugged. “She ran off with some Slytherin jerk,” he said. “I'm going to kill her when she comes back.”

They laughed.

“But seriously, what are you even doing?” Cedric asked again. “You're running around like you're barking or something.”

Harry suddenly became serious. Could he tell Cedric about his diary? Could he trust him with this knowledge? Sometimes knowledge was best kept out of certain people's hands, he'd learned over the years; it would have been better, for example, if Tom Riddle had never learned of the Chamber of Secrets, or if Peter Pettigrew had never let Voldemort learn about James and Lily. And at other times, it was simply best for a person to avoid some knowledge entirely to preserve his or her sanity, and possibly even the world. For knowledge is a powerful force, one of the most powerful, in fact, and like all powerful forces it needs to be contained and controlled. He eventually decided to settle with, “I need to, ah, _talk_ to Malfoy. You see, I believe he's the one who stole my clothes.”

Cedric stared at him as if he'd just announced that he was pregnant—and it was his. “Um,” he said. “Oh,” he also said. If he'd wanted to say dialogue that was cleverer and more helpful, he probably would've said something like, “Well, it looks like Malfoy also wants to talk to _you_ ,” since Malfoy was already striding through the crowd towards them.

“Ah, if it isn't Potter and his BEE-EFF,” Malfoy said sneeringly.

Harry glared at him, wishing for real this time that his eyes could shoot lasers. “What do you want, Malfoy?” he growled.

“I was just wondering what it was like to wear those robes despite not being a waiter,” he simply said, smirking triumphantly even though his dialogue was less snappy than usual (and honestly a bit clunky). “Shame you lost all your other clothes and your, ah, book.”

Harry froze for a moment. Malfoy was totes insinuating that he had been the one who stole his clothes— _and his diary!_ He stepped towards him threateningly, clenching his fist in preparation for some fisticuffs. “Where the bloody H-E-double broomsticks did you put my clothes, Malfoy?”

Malfoy's eyes, Harry couldn't help but notice, were evilly shining this stormy grey colour, the sort of grey you'd get if you accidentally spilled black paint into white paint and tried to get the black paint out but only ended up mixing the colours together and by then it was too late and you had to buy new black and white paint even though they were really bloody expensive but you had to paint this fence or you wouldn't get paid and you'd leave your family with no money because you were the only one who was able to work ever since your wife fell ill and your kids were too young to work because they were like five years old and you couldn't just abandon them because you loved them so much even if you did think about it once in a while but you always decided that that was the wrong thing to do and you stuck to your guns; or the sort of grey you'd get if you put a whole package of Oreos in a blender. “Why would you accuse me of something as childish as _that_ , Potter?” he said scoldingly, but he was smirking more than ever; and before Harry could retort, Malfoy was walking away, laughing.

“What was that about?” Cedric—almost forgot about him, whoops—asked, but Harry was too busy thinking to hear him. Malfoy had _definitely_ admitted to stealing Harry's diary and clothes—but how? And why? What would be the point of stealing all his clothes and his diary?

Firstly, who was Malfoy related to? Lucius. And what was Lucius? A Death Eater! And whom did Death Eaters serve? LORD VOLDEMORT! Which can only mean that Voldemort had Lucius have Malfoy steal Harry's clothes and diary so Voldemort could have a totes fresh style and embarrass Harry by reading his diary in front of the entire school after the end of the third task! _It all made sense!_

“HOLY CRAP!” Harry yelled, and he ran out of the Hall with this startling revelation, leaving behind a bemused Cedric.

_Later..._

“You do realise your theory is total bollocks, don't you?” said Ron, the reasonable one for once. This time they were in the library, Hermione opposite them at the table and reading a dictionary. It looked like she was on the Es. “You-Know-Who wouldn't have gone through all that trouble just to get a new wardrobe, mate.”

“I'm telling you, that's exactly what happened and is going to happen!” Harry hissed. “And I've only got a week to figure out how to stop it!”

From behind her book, Hermione sighed and glanced at him. “Harry, that's absolutely ridiculous,” she said. “You-Know-Who doesn't need to steal clothing from a fourteen-year-old kid; you probably don't even wear the same size.”

“DO YOU THINK VOLDEMORT CARES ABOUT THAT?!” Harry shouted. Everyone looked at him—Ron, Hermione, Dean, Seamus, Neville, Professor McGonagall, Snape, Hagrid, Dumbledore, Malfoy—even Voldemort, who was crouching right under them, cleverly disguised as a table and listening to their private conversations for the third time in five days. Two days ago he heard how Bill Weasley managed to even catch the eye of Fleur Delacour, thanks to his luscious hair.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Point is, Harry, You-Know-Who could never have gotten access to your clothes, even _if_ Malfoy were somehow involved. It just isn't possible.”

“ _You're_ not possible,” Harry snapped, feeling proud of his comeback.

Hermione just went back to her book.

“I'm saying this for your sake, mate,” Ron said. “Just drop this idea of Voldemort and Malfoy stealing your clothes. Hermione's right. It doesn't make any sense.”

Harry fumed. “I'll show you what doesn't make any sense!” he said. “I'LL SHOW YOU ALL!” And he ran out of the library, tripping through the doorway.

Voldemort laughed softly as a table. “Excellent,” he said, and he disappeared as Ron and Hermione wondered where their table had gone to.

_One week later..._

The day of the third task had approached far too quickly, like an acquaintance who was strangely eager to greet someone they'd only spoken to once just because they'd asked to borrow a pen. Harry stood at the mouth of the maze, wearing fresh new clothes he'd stolen from Malfoy as revenge; next to him was Cedric, whose date to the Yule Ball had mysteriously died a few days earlier. Cedric glanced at him and they smiled awkwardly at each other. It was kind of nice.

Harry hadn't been able to catch Malfoy doing anything nefarious during the past seven 24-hour periods called days which when combined form a week, but he knew that, today, he would finally be able to prove what he'd been saying and stop Voldemort from reading his diary and utterly humiliating him.

Ludovic “The Bag” Man was soon announcing the start of the third task and then they were off, sprinting through the maze and splitting off into opposite paths. To Harry, the maze twisted and turned like it was some sort of maze—an evil maze, judging by the things that wanted to kill him inside. _Well, two can play at that game,_ he thought, and he quickly vaporised a sphinx that was trying to tell him a riddle for some reason.

Harry stopped at a clearing, and in the distance he saw the Triwizard Cup glinting in the soft light of the night sky, presumably saying something like, “Hey, 'sup,” if metal trophies were able to talk. But he also saw Cedric in this same exact clearing, rushing for the Cup as if his life depended on it—which it probably did, considering the giant spider that was racing after him.

“CEDRIC THERE IS A GIANT FREAKING SPIDER BEHIND YOU WHAT THE CRAP,” Harry shouted at him, and with a few well-aimed spells the spider exploded.

“Uh, thanks,” Cedric said awkwardly once they had both reached the Cup. “That was, you know, pretty cool.”

“Thanks, I am,” Harry said. “So, like... do you want to take the Cup?”

“IDK, do you?”

“Yeah, but do you?”

“Well, sure, but what about you?”

“I'd like to, but how would you feel about it?”

“Pretty bad, but, like, if you want it...”

Harry fell silent for a moment. He needed to hurry and find Voldies before he could get the chance to read Harry's diary in front of the entire school. He'd freaking _die_ if that ever happened. Thus he said, “How about we both take it?” and grabbed the Cup at the same time as Cedric.

There was this feeling of being pulled and suddenly the clearing was gone, Harry's surroundings replaced by a graveyard, which is a yard full of graves, which is exactly what it says on the tin, which is the name of a TV Trope, which is a website. He and Cedric dropped the Cup and stared at it.

“What the hell,” Cedric said, and then he was hit by a blinding flash of green light.

Harry watched, shocked, as Cedric fell to the ground. “OH CRAP WHAT,” he yelled; he ran to Cedric and knelt down, staring at the body. “Cedric, are you dead?” Cedric was dead.

“NO, CEDRIC, WHY,” Harry shouted melodramatically. “You _can't_ be dead! I barely knew you but I'm extremely distraught by your death! But—but it's okay, Cedric; you can, I don't know, maybe reincarnate! Into a vampire! You'd live in the Pacific Northwest and attend high school even though you'd be over a hundred years old in vampire time! AND YOUR SKIN WOULD SPARKLE IN THE SUN!”

“Aw hell naw!” Cedric exclaimed. And then he was dead. Again.

Harry screamed and yelled at the sky, the world—this indifferent, oblivious world! The world would not care about the death of this one wizard, this one individual in a vast sea of individuals—no, an ocean, back when the continents were united in the form of Pangea, of individuals. In fact, the world would be able to birth a new individual at the same time as the death of this one—it would naturally replenish its waters, adding back that one drop it had taken away. The waves of individuals would ebb and flow for eternity, old faces constantly replaced by the new and the new replaced by the even newer—why would the waves care for the loss of just one face, just one person? Nature and the universe and the world would always remain, always go on and on and on even without the existence of humankind, of any being, of any one individual. They simply do not care. They do not care whether or not someone is standing upon it or gazing up at it or wondering about it, whether or not someone is there to take it all in, whether or not it creates or destroys. They are cruel. They are benevolent. They are neutral. Like the elements of an atom, they and their creations will forever circle one another, circling and circling for as long as time will last until finally, after what seems like an eternity, they will simply fall apart, but they will still be indifferent to the death of this one wizard named Cedric.

Harry barely had time to ponder how deep that all was because he saw who had shot that blast of light: Wormtail, that weird guy who lived with the Weasleys for the twelve years he was a rat. (It sounds weird in context, too.) And next to Wormtail was... LORD FREAKING VOLDEMORT, WEARING HARRY'S FAB CLOTHES!

“So you _did_ send Lucius to send Malfoy to steal my clothes so you could wear them!” Harry exclaimed, standing up to face the Dark Lord.

Voldemort laughed. His red eyes shone bright at him like a sadistic stoplight that was stubbornly stuck on STOP, and Harry was the impatient driver who was steadily getting later and later for his business meeting. “Indeed I did, Potter,” he said.

“But that also means—” Harry didn't want to finish his sentence. It was... too painful to.

Voldemort smiled. “Indeed again,” he said. “I'm going to read your diary in front of your entire school and _embarrass_ you!” And he laughed once more.

“Allow me to give you a sneak peek,” he went on. Then he reached into his—stolen—robes and pulled out a small book that Harry instantly recognised as his bloody DIARY. Voldies flipped to a random page, smiling wider, and began to read:

_“Dear Diary,_

Today during Potions I wrote a story about that handsome jerk Malfoy falling down a flight of stairs, but Snape found out and gave me detention. It was so embarrassing! He kept telling me about how much he loved my dead mum! It was just—”

Harry suddenly let out a yell and shot Stunning spells at him, one of which hit Voldemort and made him fall onto the ground. “YOU STUPID HYPOCRITE RACIST GIT!” he shouted at the unmoving Voldemort, snatching his diary out of his hands. “I'LL RESURRECT _YOUR_ DIARY AND READ _THAT_ IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE BLOODY SCHOOL!” He glared at Wormtail, who was staring at him. “AND WHAT THE BLOODY 'ELL DO _YOU_ WANT?!”

Wormtail shook his head fervently. “N-nothing,” he said quietly, and he quickly sprinted away as fast as he could, which was still rather slow.

“GOD FREAKING DAMMIT,” Harry shouted, grabbing Cedric's dead body and the Cup; then he was transported to the mouth of the maze, that pulling feeling there again, and stood there in front of the entire school.

People came running down celebrating, resembling a school of wizard fish excitedly rejoicing in the triumph of their fellow wizard fish in winning a magical competition even though this particular wizard fish was entered into said magical competition illegally and unwillingly. Ron and Hermione rushed through the throng of metaphorical wizard fish to meet Harry.

“Harry, what happened?!” Hermione exclaimed, worrying.

“I Stunned Voldemort and got my diary back,” Harry replied. Someone yelled, “OH MY GOD, CEDRIC'S DEAD!” and Harry added, “Oh, yeah, and Cedric's dead.”

“Wow,” Ron said, mildly impressed. “I can't believe you were actually right about all that crazy bollocks.” Hermione nodded in agreement.

Harry looked down at his diary and smiled. This was one thing Voldemort would never be able to read in front of the entire school ever again.

THE END


End file.
